


crack in the ceiling

by colberry



Category: the GazettE
Genre: Amnesia, Developing Relationship, Empath, Everyone Needs A Hug, Kai can't have nice things, Love Triangles, M/M, Mind Control, One-Sided Relationship, Personality Swap, Porn With Plot, Shapeshifting, Supernatural Elements, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 19:49:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colberry/pseuds/colberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Kai promises him as he watches Uruha's eyes bleed into silver, "You were happy once."</p><p>Or:  Shapeshifters, empaths, memory-shifters, dual souls, and bears, oh my!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Who do you want to love tonight, darling?_  
  
Her lips were painted in dark rouge, a sin away from decadent noir; stained and slathered as if she had bitten into a thousand hearts. Uruha could almost hear the lost beats still pulsing on her tongue, each last gasp of life that left her coy leer as she handed him the photo. Uruha knowingly smiled back while quietly imagining her teeth coated with dripping scarlet. It would’ve been beautiful, he mused while running a thumb down the picture’s edge, to have the red stark against white, her incisors snapping open his veins – to have something tear him wide open.  
  
Uruha examined the photo, eyes already flickering with a shadow of silver.  
  
Old and worn, tarnished sepia – something kept close, something traced with a fingertip over and over again. Scuffs marred most of the man’s features, but it was enough.  
  
He flipped it over. Script; small and signed in a hopeful slant:  
  
 _Amano Shinji_.  
  
Uruha gave an absent nod, turning the picture over again to study the hazel eyes and sharp angles of the man’s jaw and cheekbones. He was steel shards and dark aplomb. Tall. Refined. Attractive.  
  
Unavailable.  
  
Uruha smirked, lifting his gaze and noticing the woman’s lingering, wistful stare upon the aged photo. The lamppost shuttered above them – _light, no light; here, not here._  
  
He whispered as he walked away, voice like crushed glass beneath their feet and lost to the vapors in the frosted air, “Two hours.”  
  
:.:  
  
The stars were smudged tonight, smog suffocating every lonely streetlight. The lolling darkness sighed against Uruha’s hunched shoulders as he walked briskly towards the address he let the stammering bartender scribble on his palm.  
  
The young woman had sputtered as Uruha, borrowing Aoi’s come-hither glow and raven locks, had cocked his hip against the counter and smirked. The natural drawl of Aoi’s tenor had fallen almost too easily from his lips, the quirks already manifesting themselves as he slurred the vowels of her name and hummed at the pink staining her cheeks. Dragging the address out of her only took ten minutes, mostly due to Uruha’s own haste as Aoi’s skin began to feel too comfortable, too natural, _too his._  
  
And the soft-spoken blonde must have seen the streak of panic in his eyes, colors shifting from noir to copper, as she gently touched his arm in concern, _“Are you alright?”_  
  
He had flashed her one of Aoi’s more charming grins, the one that usually had the elder lapping up the blushing delight of waitresses and bellboys alike, _“It’s fine. I just haven’t been feeling like myself lately.”_  
  
Uruha nearly tore Aoi’s face off – his hair, his smile, his midnight eyes – when he stumbled behind the back of the bar. The brick was slick against his clammy palms as he waited for himself to return, pleading and swearing and _“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Yuu”._ It was slower this time, almost painful. His bones jostled and flesh shifted – static rippling through every vein and pore as he braced himself against the wall. A slow shiver wracked his spine, rattling him to fall back into _Uruha._ And even though he could feel the bowed lips parted in horror, the slender fingers, and the sun-dappled freckles, his gaze remained blackened by Aoi’s touch.  
  
 _Too close, too close –_  
  
And so when Uruha found him smoking outside his apartment, he almost stopped.  
  
Ashes were falling from his cigarette, pleading their last rites into the stained slush at the stranger’s feet – black specks that almost glistened with the burning sins of fallen stars. Uruha watched the man flick his cigarette again, unaware – his lips chapped and eyes pale.  
  
He almost stopped.  
  
Almost – _almost,  
but ‘almost’ wasn’t here._  
  
“Can I borrow a light?”  
  
The man – _Shinji, Shinji_ – casually glanced over, his gaze drawn to the unlit cigarette in Uruha’s awaiting hand. He politely ignored the slight tremble of his bones, not commenting on how the other’s knuckles were a ghastly white – _how something awful-beautiful was collapsing inside of him; breaking, shattering_ – and wordlessly held out a black Zippo.  
  
The flame was too bright and Uruha nearly closed his eyes to the burn, his cold fingers reaching out – _slowly, slowly_ – and brushing against Shinji’s.  
  
And it was a warm pulse, a lick of static across his flesh – a glow of embers – and Uruha smiled with hazel eyes.  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
:.:  
  
Something was snapping, Uruha realized later when the stilettos ripped into his sheets and the nails clawed at his collarbone. The push of _it’s not – not what you – not you_ was careening into the chest, the heart, that wasn’t his. Hazel eyes gleaming, lapping at the trails of dust from the moon, he watched her spine arch perfectly into his desperate grip –  
  
 _“Rough. He’s always rough.”  
  
Uruha knotted his callused fingers in her dark roots, forcing her head back to murmur against her throat, lips dragging across her shaking breaths, “I don’t know any other way.”_  
  
– the metallic crimson tasted almost perfectly sweet as he bit deep into her shoulder and melted into her low purr. The foreign piercing slicing through his lip was cold against their sweat-slicked pants and he dragged it slowly across the goosebumps pricking her skin.  
  
It was broken headboards and white-knuckling bedposts. It was nips against his jaw, scarlet dotting his stolen irises, black night covering them completely. Uruha slammed her into the mattress, hips crashing into her own, reveling in her sin-soaked moans – _the cracked syllables of a name that’s not his._ He sank in, so _close_ to growling _love_ into her quaking mouth.  
  
But when she let out a soft sigh and pressed her maw gently upon his – _not his_ – and pulled him close, quietly kissing the corner of his lips, Uruha yearned to lean away, rip himself out of this body, break every light, and drown in the stranglehold of _night_ , because –  
  
 _Because_ –  
  
But her eyes were so alight with the gasp of every galaxy he could name, drops of nova-dust clinging to her eyelashes, and it was almost all for him – _almost_.  
  
And he forgot in the moment between the sharp clicks of her heels as she wrapped her legs tight around his waist and the purr in her throat as she crooned _Shinji_ into his parted lips. He forgot and he pushed and he was so close, _so close_ –  
  
 _Because her eyes were the same color as –_  
  
:.:  
  
And the sheets were still tangled around his ankles, and his lamp was in a thousand shards, and she was pulling on her shredded tights.  
  
He basked in the sickening feel of his eyes shifting from color to color – unsteady, unsure, which one, which one is real, _is him_ – and she shoved the crumpled bills into his chest.  
  
 _“You’re such a beautiful lie.”_  
  
ii.  
  
Aoi could taste the last stains of lust, the final gasps of slipping control, when Uruha collapsed against the threshold of his room - shattering the quiet lull of 4AM. The floorboards were soaked in slush, the other’s boots in a dilapidated pile near the door, and Aoi quietly listened to the deep breaths and mumbled _sorry’s_. His hand hovered over the doorknob, ready to tear it off its hinges and take hold of Uruha’s shoulders. Maybe shake him. Maybe scream and plead and _you’re so much more than this_ and promise a thousand trivial lies into the midnight bruises beneath those copper-silver eyes.  
  
But Aoi stood there, listening. Slowly inhaling a shaky breath, the vermilion and sandalwood pulses of sex and despair flooded him, filled him – swallowing some void right beside his ribs and heart. He wanted to stop, to pluck the morose colors from Uruha’s grimaces and muted sobs… But his knees shook and it was _so fucking good_. Beautifully horrible.  
  
Aoi touched his forehead to the splintered wood, mouthing his own silent apologies.  
  
Because it was always like this: Uruha stumbling into their ransacked apartment in the hours between night and dawn, nearly _gone_ and just barely grasping _himself_ , and Aoi frozen on the outskirts – drinking in the war-torn emotions flitting across his soul, the bloodcurdling horror that echoes in every shutter of his lungs. Always _almost_ twisting the knob open and dropping to his knees next to Uruha’s curled up form, sweeping the sweat-matted hair from Uruha’s pale cheeks; almost taking his hand and pressing it to his chest to bestow him every beautiful feeling he still has stirring within him to give. Almost.  
  
But it waits until morning when Aoi will scorch his tongue on black coffee and will mutter to Uruha’s vacant stare across the table, _“You still have the eyes of the whore you fucked last night.”_  
  
And Uruha will grin, something that nearly breaks his entire face apart, _“It’s just a souvenir.”_  
  
Neither commenting on how he _can’t_ shift the color back.  
  
Sliding his hand off the door, Aoi slowly backed away and made his way into the kitchen. The glare of 4:32AM greeted him on the oven timer, reminding him of the heavy weight dragging down his eyelids and the curve in his slouched spine. He paused for a moment to stare at the time with unfocused eyes, absently noting the stick of the linoleum against his bare feet, before he gave in and turned to grab a glass.  
  
Aoi stroked the smooth rim in order to calm the nerves raging inside of him, the hit of Uruha’s desire and disgust still swirling inside his mouth, and reached for the lower cabinet. The bottles of sake, rum, and other strong vices awaited him in a neat line, a pale shadow falling over them from the kitchen’s dim lighting. Aoi lifted out Uruha’s favorite scotch and poured the amber liquid until it nearly sloshed over the rim.  
  
And he tried. With every sip and every swallow, Aoi tried to forget. But he could still taste the aureate decadence of sin, the sweet sonnets of _maybe-love_ , the gritting teeth, and the haunted anguish. It was a heady mix, a wonderful toxin that Aoi would have loved to delicately seep into because it was _close enough_.  
  
Another glass.  
  
Another.  
  
And even with the burn at his throat and the tilted angle of his kitchen through his glassy eyes, Aoi could still _remember_. He remembered the yellow happiness against his tongue as he watched Takanori lace his fingers with Reita, of watching the younger walk away, of _wanting_ –  
  
  
He remembered the hollow touch to his skin, the dead emotions fluttering inside his chest, as Uruha watched him watch Takanori, and promised, _“You can have him. Just for tonight.”_  
  
  
And he had chuckled darkly, throwing back his sake so hard that his neck ached. He turned to the man draped against the bar beside him, noting the tousled auburn hair and the empty smile. Aoi snorted, eyes returning to his dry glass, “Oh? And what makes you so fucking sure?”  
  
He started at the fingertip ghosting against his hand and nearly tore away with a snarl before the younger man softly uttered, “I’m not sure. But if you are, I can let you have him tonight.”  
  
Aoi glared, the red filter of the bar’s lighting casting a dangerous glow to his noir eyes, “Fuck off and don’t you dare fucking touch him.”  
  
The man only smiled wider, almost excited at the growl lacing Aoi’s words and the radiating irritation he released into the air, “You’re the one who will be doing the touching, don’t worry. All you have to do is ask.”  
  
Incredulous, Aoi whipped around and caught the stranger’s collar in an iron grip. He jostled him, jaw clenching at the way those bowed lips only smirked in response. “What the fuck do you want from me?”  
  
“It’s what _you_ want.”  
  
Aoi pulled him closer, his nails grazing the man’s throat, “And what do you fucking care?”  
  
To Aoi’s sadistic pleasure, he could see the auburn-haired man start to gasp on the navy-laced anger that Aoi pushed into his chest. But he swallowed, a glint of sincerity – a glimmer of loneliness – in his copper eyes, “Because I understand. And it’s okay to want what you’ll never have.”  
  
Aoi winced, wanting to turn away and leave – to close his eyes and pretend that maybe one day Takanori would look at him, really _look_ , and that when he woke up with words written on every inch of his skin, they wouldn’t be _Ruki’s_ confessions alone.  
  
But he didn’t. He stayed and watched as the man’s smile softened, a hand reaching up to touch the taut tendons of his wrist, “But for you… You can have him tonight – I can have him love you tonight.”  
  
He stroked his thumb against Aoi’s rapid pulse, “You just have to say yes.”  
  
Aoi stared, unsure of what to make of the wry twist on the man’s lips nor the way his hand started to quiver. Because _fuck_.  
  
He _wanted_.  
  
Aoi wanted to know if Takanori’s hands could fit into his own, if he only smiled like that for Reita, if there was any _chance_ – if maybe, _maybe_ , Takanori could ease the addiction of tasting everyone else’s emotions but his own.  
  
And Aoi was weak.  
  
“How?”  
  
The auburn-haired man smirked, stepping back as he was released from Aoi’s hold, and slipped him a card. The elder furrowed his brow at the address, but the stranger was already walking away – fading into the surly shadows of the bar and swallowing every last light with a final whisper:  
  
“Two hours.”  
  
Aoi found himself nearly aching with anticipation at the bar while he waited for the minutes to dwindle down. He scoffed at his eagerness and perhaps life-threatening stupidity for following a stranger’s odd promises. But his curiosity was piqued – the raw gruff of _what if_ echoing in his ears, drowning the usually desirous emotions of lustful bar-goers.  
  
Because maybe if he just had _one night_ , maybe –  
  
When an hour and a half slowly crawled by, Aoi pushed the money towards the bartender and let the door swing on his way out.  
  
The address led him to a gritty area downtown – whores whispering sweet sonnets underneath streetlights and graffiti decorating every wall, sidewalk, and window. Aoi nearly gagged on the degrading auras that slunk past him, the decrepit resignation of every street urchin that lingered in the alleyways. It didn’t take long to find the apartment building – a dull pewter covered in the black scrawlings of society’s forgotten. The stairs creaked ominously and Aoi couldn’t help the morbid thought rushing to his mind as he glanced at the gaping holes in the plaster and the splintered mess of the banister, _‘This is going to be my tomb, isn’t it?’_  
  
Apartment 216.  
  
The numbers were a tarnished gold and the ‘6’ was slanted to the right. Aoi stood there in askance, not knowing why he had decided to follow – only to be led into an underbelly, into something that wouldn’t sate him, but would perhaps destroy him.  
  
He stood there contemplating, glaring at the crooked ‘6’, until he heard a shuffle from within. A slight scurrying, a quick padding of feet, and Aoi wanted to know, wanted to _see_.  
  
Because _maybe_ –  
  
He knocked twice and held his breath as the shuffling came closer.  
  
 _Closer, closer, and Aoi could taste it – the beautiful sin and relinquished control – just a little closer, and –_  
  
The door swung open to reveal Takanori – styled brown hair, small smirk, amber eyes, _Takanori_.  
  
The smaller man folded his arms, taking in Aoi’s parted lips and wide eyes. With a chuckle, he stepped back, opening up the door a little wider, and mirthfully scolded, “You’re late. You better make it up to me.”  
  
Aoi _couldn’t_ – his throat was dry and his hands wouldn’t stop _fucking shaking_ because this – this wasn’t, couldn’t be –  
  
Watching the elder man slowly shake his head in mounting dread, Takanori’s smirk fell – mischievous visage softening with concern, “It’s okay.”  
  
Aoi snapped, taking a rough step back, “No, no – I don’t know what this is, but I don’t want it, I don’t – ”  
  
But he stopped, _fucking stopped_ , because Takanori’s small hand was holding onto his wrist, the calluses of writing paper after paper rubbing against his flesh, and maybe this was real – maybe the stranger had let him know, talked to him, got him to _see_ –  
  
Takanori gently tugged on his arm, tawny gaze never leaving his frightened stare, “You want this and that’s okay. You can have it.”  
  
The brunet lifted his other hand to tangle in Aoi’s raven locks, thumb caressing his temple. The taller man unconsciously leaned into the feather-light touch, the warmth, and Takanori pressed his lips to the underside of his jaw, “It’s okay like this. Just tonight.”  
  
Aoi closed his eyes, tilting his head to nestle in further to the plush feel of Takanori’s mouth, wanting to memorize the beautiful curve of his smile against his flesh. And it was wrong – _fucking wrong_ – but there was something beautiful in the tragedy of one starless night, of feeling the happiness still swell within him for something, _anything_.  
  
Aoi sifted his hands into those soft tresses, fingertips dancing across the nape of his neck, lips hovering over Takanori’s quiet breaths – waiting, waiting, _stretching this moment just a little longer so he can keep it maybe for a small part of forever._  
  
Because Aoi had already fallen, and he didn’t mind plummeting even further. “Okay.”  
  
And it was a wondrous blur of ratty curtains, torn sheets, hot pants, and wet declarations across clavicles. Aoi breathed in deep, trying to kiss every freckle that decorated Takanori’s alabaster flesh. The other moaned softly with every touch of his lips, sinking further and further into the elder’s grip as he straddled Aoi’s bucking waist. Hips snapped together, a beautiful cacophony of _wait, yes, more_ and Takanori’s amber irises were aglow in the darkness. Aoi could feel him drinking in his pliant form, gaze unto him as he arched and mewled and dug his fingernails into the other’s shoulder blades to maybe rip them open wide and release the wings he always knew were there –  
  
Takanori bent down to bite at his hipbones, leaving harsh pink reminders for the morning light, and Aoi could still feel tears prick his eyes – even as the sweet emotion of _love_ threatened to overtake his heart, _his fucking stupid heart_ – because he knew, he _knew_.  
  
“You’re not him.” He was breathless, unraveling, needing to tear his eyes away from the image of Takanori lapping at his flesh, but wanting to keep him- _not-him_ here all the same.  
  
Takanori glanced up, tongue still pressing against him, heated gaze at half-mast and still beckoning him, “I could be.”  
  
Aoi hissed, eyes squeezing shut as he arched off the sheets at the other’s skillful, patient touch slowly making its way to his ribs, “But you’re _not_. _You’re not._ ”  
  
And Takanori hesitated above his heart, hovering just above the frantic beats. Something flickered across his face – something Aoi would forever remember later when the apartment is still empty at the eleventh hour and insomnia greets him goodnight – and his amber eyes slowly faded to a dull copper-steel.  
  
And he placed his cheek atop Aoi’s shaking chest.  
  
“I know.”  
  
:.:  
  
Takanori- _not-Takanori_ had tried to get him to turn away in the morning. He pleaded with him to not shatter the illusion, to gather the sheets and _go_. And Aoi wanted to. He fucking _wanted to_ because he could still feel the fingertips tracing every part of him, the moans and gasps still fresh on his lips – the lies – but he stayed.  
  
He stayed, even when he watched Takanori disappear – his hair lengthening to an auburn sheen, his lips becoming bowed, his face collapsing to become someone he didn’t know.  
  
But he was still there – still in that warm amber hue and Aoi fisted his hand in the sheets when the other man glanced his way with _those fucking eyes_. “Who are you?”  
  
The younger man shrugged, averting his gaze to stare down at the sheets pooling in his naked lap, “It depends.”  
  
Aoi’s eyes blackened further, anger licking his spine at the nonchalance, and he growled lowly, “That’s not a fucking answer. You followed me at the bar, you led me on a fucking goose-chase into this hellhole and you wore my friend’s _fucking face_. Who the _fuck_ are you?”  
  
The man flinched, but he turned to look at him all the same. Aoi could see the amber slowly fading, silver beginning to streak across his irises.  
  
“I’m whoever anyone wants. But I’m mostly Uruha.”  
  
The acidic anger dissipated a little as Aoi felt a slight ache pulse between them, a desperate hollowness, and he let his fingers uncurl from the navy sheets. The silence loomed for a moment until Aoi couldn’t help but to crouch down and try to find those shifting eyes in the dying darkness, “Why do you do it?”  
  
Uruha caught his questioning stare and smiled wanly, “It’s a chance for me too.”  
  
Aoi furrowed his brow, frowning at the flippant words, “A chance for what? To be fucked?”  
  
The other man leaned back on his hands, watching the chipping paint on the ceiling for a moment before he lolled his head towards Aoi once more, smile gone. “To have something, anything. Even if it’s only for a night.”  
  
Aoi scoffed, “That seems a little desperate.”  
  
Uruha smirked softly, “Aren’t we all?”  
  
:.:  
  
The bottom of the bottle was rimmed in a golden film, empty.  
  
And Aoi was stretched out across the table, head buried in his arms – still remembering.  
  
 _“We all get one night. And sometimes, when they’re fucking me, letting me fuck them, pulling my hair and whispering ‘I fucking love you’ into my skin – I almost believe it too.”_  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How’s Ruki?”
> 
> Takanori paused in fiddling with the notebook in his hands, the edges of the paper already riddled with crinkles, and looked up with a risen eyebrow, “…He says hello.”

“How’s Ruki?”  
  
Takanori paused in fiddling with the notebook in his hands, the edges of the paper already riddled with crinkles, and looked up with a risen eyebrow, “…He says hello.”  
  
Kai rolled his eyes behind his desk with a good-natured grin. He absently tapped his pen along the spiral ring of his own notebook while placing his head in the palm of his free hand, amused, “Oh does he?”  
  
Takanori hummed, opening the front cover to scribble something across the neat lines. The light scratches of his pencil filled the calm air of the office for a spell. Kai passively watched Takanori’s eyes cloud over, his hand gyrating against invisible strings; his penmanship slowly dissolved into a darker, messier scrawl – black, jagged strokes. The elder calmly waited, used to these pauses and breaks. The crisp sound of Takanori writing was a daily constant, something almost soothing in its consistency.  
  
Kai had lost many loose papers, counter space, and exposed skin to the shorter man’s endless flow of words from those who were forever muted. The handwriting would always change – loping scripts to stark uppercase shouts, no two etchings were alike. Except for Ruki, who would always find a way to smirk darkly along the measured lines and spilled ink. Kai could remember the first time Ruki had growled at him – brutally shoving himself into Takanori’s hand as the elder was counseling him in this very same room, forcing the brunet to swipe out and seize Kai’s arm and tattoo a snarl into his flesh:  
  
 _‘You can’t erase me.’_  
  
Takanori blinked, hand halting above the paper, and hastily read over the words that weren’t his own. Kai inwardly grimaced at the slow smirk working across his lips.  
  
The younger man began erasing the chaotic letterings with a nonchalant air, chancing a glance at the psychologist across the desk, “Well, maybe more along the lines of _‘fuck off’_ , but _‘hello’_ all the same.”  
  
Kai nodded with a knowing sigh, already used to Ruki’s perpetual loathe of these (sometimes literally) mind-numbing sessions – and perhaps himself as well, but Takanori always rushed to placate those needling nerves, explaining that the other part of himself was actually quite fond of the elder, hence the constant teasing – and tapped a finger to his cheek in thought.  
  
“Charming as always, then.”  
  
Takanori merely grinned back cheekily and Kai had to wonder just how much of Ruki splayed across his friend’s mirthful visage.  
  
Kai settled back into his chair, wincing at the wood’s sharp angles digging into his side, and attempted to steer this session back to its original purpose. “Have you told Reita yet?”  
  
Takanori’s grin clattered to the knothole-ridden floor and was replaced by an exasperated huff, fingers crumpling up the gossamer paper once again. The furrow in his brown deepened as he twisted and pulled at the notebook’s innards. “Yeah, I totally took him out to a candlelit dinner and whispered into his ear, ‘Oh yeah, by the by, I have two of me in here and one of them is sorta cheating on you. Are you going to have the fish or the chicken?’”  
  
Kai coughed, hiding his smile at Takanori’s mocking tone behind his fist. Ruki was bleeding through more frequently these days, coloring Takanori’s more submissive, quiet nature. It made for plenty of impromptu sarcastic quips at Kai’s attire and smirks that seemed to fit more comfortably upon those plush lips than the nervous smile that Takanori would usually send his way. It was promising – the blending of two souls that had been savagely ripped apart. Kai could only hope that neither would completely smother the other – that neither would drown out the other’s echoing voice – because despite there only being one body, there were two people whom Kai had come to adore.  
  
It wasn’t always easy like this. There were dark nights and telephone cords wrapped around wrists. There would be frantic knocks on his door at every shade of midnight and wide, fearful eyes as Takanori’s knees buckled on his threshold, whispering that he couldn’t _remember_ , couldn’t tell which _one of him_ he was and _“I can’t let Reita know, I can’t please, Kai, I can’t”_. And there were hoarse, guttural screams as the voices would gnash their teeth against the younger’s mind and Kai would brace his own hands against Takanori-maybe-Ruki’s scalp and _push_ – bringing forth the memories, the pulses of who he was – and the other would stare up at him blankly in the aftermath as his hands shook in those blonde-brunet-russet locks, eyes broken into amber and silver and whisper:  
  
 _“Let me out.”_  
  
The elder twirled the pen around his fingers, deftly avoiding the chewed-up pen cap and fighting the fidgeting urge to tap out a melody against his desk, and addressed both men behind those amber irises. “You’re going to have to tell him sometime. It’s been, what? Three years? He deserves to know, Taka, and… maybe it would you figure out how to balance what you really want.”  
  
Takanori sighed, sinking low in his chair. He rolled his eyes towards the crooked ceiling tiles before averting them to glare at the wall, “I don’t know why I go to these appointments when you tell me the same shit each time.”  
  
Kai pointedly jabbed the pen towards Takanori’s slumped form with a teasing pout, “Because you never listen to me.”  
  
The glare swiveled over to Kai. “Can’t you just take him to your back alley and implant a memory of me telling him instead? You can add some flair if you want – screaming, crying, breaking shit – ”  
  
The last remnants of the elder’s smile fell, lips thinning. “Taka…”  
  
The brunet snorted, digging his pen deep into the notebook – a jagged line breaking apart the pages. “I knew you’d be too chicken-shit, not after – ”  
  
Kai closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, carefully, and willed the tightening of his throat to lift – but the prism of almost still fluttered in his chest and all the loose-gripped sanity along with it, no matter how much he had tried to keep it locked up tight all these months. It was slipping, slipping – the haunting whispers of _remember-me-not_ and the sun-soaked tresses wrapped around his fingers; the beautiful feeling of burying his face into the cradle of that neck, listening close to every pulse and every smile that was hidden in the crook of his arm, stomach, hair, _everywhere_ ; and the crimson soaking each soft utterance of _love_ because, because –  
  
 _not real, not here, not –_  
  
“Kai. _Kai_.”  
  
He jolted at the tight hold on his hand, the sting of Takanori’s nails sinking into his bones. A fleeting shadow of Ruki lurked within his concerned visage, flaring bright with every missed chance and chain that kept him bound and speechless. It was in the way his lips parted, the way his eyebrows knitted, the way he was almost _too close_ , and Kai was unsure where the blurred line was – where Takanori descended into Ruki’s outstretched palms.  
  
“Who – ?”  
  
 _Which one –_  
  
The brunet shook his head, dark strands falling into his narrowed eyes, “It doesn’t matter, I’m sorry. Both of us – sorry.”  
  
Still clasping his wrist, Takanori-maybe-Ruki gently spread Kai’s hand across his forehead, the man’s heart-line resting upon his brow. His eyes fluttered shut as Kai’s fingertips dragged along the stray locks and taut flesh. Those trembles were _so close_ – something that could be so easily shattered, something that had Kai trying to pull his hand away from the raw ache. But the younger man slid his fingers between the spaces of Kai’s, softly pushing them together.  
  
Stroking his thumb along the back of Kai’s hand, over the slopes of his knuckles, between the rough bite of his calluses, he was hushed and gentle, “I don’t know why you do this to yourself. You deserve some happiness too, you know… You deserved it when you had it, Kai.”  
  
A dry laugh escaped cracked lips, “It was nothing.”  
  
Ruki – _he was sure of it now; the soft growl lacing his voice, the seizing grip_ – pulled him even closer, breath hot on his cheek, “He loved you.”  
  
Kai bit his lip, crimson coating his tongue, and hissed as he ripped himself out of Ruki’s hold, “He _didn’t_. Not like that.”  
  
“Maybe, but at the end before you ripped it away, he – ”  
  
“Shut the _fuck up_ , Ruki!” The picture frames on his desk rattled as he slammed his fist onto the wood, breath heavy and eyes squeezed shut.  
  
Kai swallowed thickly, forcing down all the words he could no longer whisper into that smile, all times he looked into those mirthful eyes as they lay intertwined in hushed promises and threadbare sheets (as he traced every worry line carved into Kai’s face with a gentle, calloused finger, _‘it’s okay, I’ll make it okay’_ ) and wondered that maybe – _maybe_ _– maybe this could be –_  
  
 _“Just let me be a part – one small part – of your forever.”_  
  
Kai wrenched himself away from his desk, from Ruki – whose eyes held only the ghost of Takanori, too blazing and bright and dangerous. “We’re done for today.”  
  
Ruki furrowed his brows, slowly creeping forward with a tentatively stretched out hand – wanting to comfort, to do something more than lurk behind Takanori’s soft smiles and shaking vertebrae, to do _good_ –  
  
“Kai, I didn’t… I didn’t mean to, I just want you to – ”  
  
“You want a lot of things, Ruki,” Kai glanced over to him, eyes flitting to the trembling fingertips desperately reaching towards him. “And sometimes, it’s not enough.”  
  
Ruki slowly lowered his hand, scarred palms merely grazing the bitter, looming shadows beneath Kai’s lost irises. His jaw clenched, something tight and horrible stretching his heart, the flames licking delightfully at his chest as Kai’s hissed words pierced his throat, “Sometimes, it’s not okay to want what you can’t have.”  
  
The snarl felt so beautiful against his teeth – so goddamn gorgeous as it ripped Kai’s face apart, “Then what the fuck are _you_ doing?!  You fucking _created_ what you wanted, you goddamn liar. You had him – _you fucking had him!_ ”  
  
The stark slam of the chair falling back, the rustle of papers falling to the ground, the creak of the desk, the gasp of Kai’s lips as he grabbed his collar tight – beautiful. “You fucking threw it away – you fucking threw him _away!_ So don’t you fucking say shit to me after everything you’ve done for happiness.”  
  
His nails grazed the swell of Kai’s throat, “Why can’t _I_ have that? Why does _he_ get to have _everything?_ ”  
  
Something collapsed in Ruki’s eyes – a flicker of a drowning scream – and Kai reached out to grab Ruki’s wrist to try and quell the chaos lapping at his veins, to drag Takanori back to here, “Taka, stop, calm down – ”  
  
But Takanori was so far and away, even as his lips brushed against Kai’s ear, teeth snapping at his flesh, _“But I’m here too – I’m right fucking **here** – ”_  
  
The sting of Kai’s fingernails digging into his wrist, his shaking breaths, his breaking pulse, surged forward to shatter against bleeding hearts before the soft, shaking whisper of: _“I know.”_  
  
A harrowing silence settled on their lungs – _stutter, stutter, breathe_ – and Ruki clenched his jaw tight, the raw burn festering beneath his skin. Kai shuddered beside him, fingers still grasping the hollow bones of his wrists, and the elder closed his eyes, an ache lolling between his ribs. “I know.”  
  
Because he did – because he was there beneath the shadowed smirks and coy glances, along each broken murmur that would sometimes slip from Takanori’s lips as cheap beer loosened their clenched fists; the ragged breaths on his neck as Kai dragged the other home, the low and crooning pleas of _Aoi-Aoi-Aoi_ – the way Reita would take the younger from his arms and gather him close, _close because he was slipping, slipping –_  
  
– how he would bury his face in the warm shadow of Reita’s neck, his spine shaking in Reita’s gentle hands, and whisper wetly _“not you, not you”._  
  
Kai felt the younger man lower his head, brown locks tickling against his cheek, and pant into his shoulder. Kai let him, the sight of Ruki shattering into his palms – of Takanori swept away, like he _never was, never again_ – still echoing in the muffled quiet. He mouthed broken words into Kai’s damp shirt, choking back the need to dig his nails into Kai’s temples and scream into his gasps, _I’m just as real – right here, right here, so real_ –  
  
And Kai didn’t want to break the strangled hush, didn’t want to untangle Takanori’s fingers from his wrinkled shirt, didn’t want to step back and watch Ruki watch him behind Takanori’s wrecked stare.  
  
 _He didn’t want to give in to the ghost in his bones – to the sweet whispers to **go back** – go back and let him rememb –_  
  
He choked back the burn at his throat. “Tell him today.”  
  
Takanori merely continued to stare, eyes still smudged with the ashes of dead wishes and mouth still parted with the last breaths of Ruki’s screams, while Kai lowered his gaze to the crooked floorboards. And it wasn’t right to give Takanori his back, to chain him to Ruki’s black words, to push him, _push him – and wouldn’t it be so easy to graze a fingertip to his temple, to create what was missing, to make him remember the courage that was coiled around his ribs – to seal away the hurt forever –  
  
But  
  
But –_  
  
But Takanori was already turning away, already grasping those chains tight and letting the shackles sink deep into his mottled skin – the low growl of Ruki dragging across his aching throat. And he could feel the other’s gnarled hand laced with his, leading him to the door, forcing him to wrench it open with a sharp crack – his cold, clammy fingers pressed against his lips, nails sinking deep into his gums until his mouth was bathed in blushing scarlet.  
  
The crimson droplets slid past his jaw in suicidal leaps, beautiful-horrible rivulets staining each step he took – each breath a garble of vermillion – and coating his fingertips raw when he later buried his hands in Reita’s bleached hair, drowning his frowning concern ( _“Takanori what’s going on, why are you – ”_ ) as he forced their lips together in an stinging clash of gums and teeth. And the red seeped in, slathered across Reita’s tongue, rushed down his throat as Takanori slammed them both against the wall – picture frames and plaster shattering – to sink in deeper, _deeper_.  
  
“Taka,” Reita furrowed his brows, even as he bent into Takanori’s chaste touches to the nape of his neck, tilting towards the open-mouthed kisses trailing his collarbone, “Why are you –”  
  
“ _No, no –_ ” Takanori gripped the other tight, knuckles white as he bit into the curve of Reita’s neck and worried the pink flesh between his lips, reveling in the keening groans – in Ruki’s stifled, waning growls – and slid a leg between Reita’s parted thighs.  
  
He pushed – _he fucking pushed_ – coaxing Reita to spread his legs wider, to let him brush his fingers against the straining zipper, to be completely still as he glanced upwards, metal caught in his teeth. Reita swallowed at the smoldering flicker of ochre in his eyes, the caustic pulse of _heat_ that beckoned him to bare his throat to slice red. And even as his fingertips drifted down to gently tangle in the thin curls by Takanori’s ear, he uttered to the hollowed gaze beneath Takanori’s coy leer, “Not when you’re like this.”  
  
Takanori scoffed, tongue flicking out to lap at the zipper’s puckered teeth, and pressed his mouth closer so that each syllable grazed throbbing warmth, “Like what?”  
  
Reita groaned with a lustful lick to his maw, throwing his head back at the feather-light teases drifting _close-far-close_. And it would’ve been easy, he knew, to seize those brunet locks and viciously yank Takanori forward and bruise his smirking lips – _like he fucking wanted him to_ – but he could see something cracked apart in every shaking breath –  
  
– the same _something_ that would split open after midnight kissed their eyelids shut and the hold on his hand went slack and Reita would curl his fingers into the emptiness, not sure if the man draped next to him in those tangled sheets was anyone he knew at all as steely amber irises glared at him from beneath his tousled bangs.  
  
But Takanori would come back in the morning light, legs utterly entangled with his own at dawn and nose buried in his chest. He would always come back and smile and tilt his head at Reita’s lost stare, eyes tracing Reita’s shaking fingertips as they reached out to touch his cheek in wonder – _are you here_ – and would ask him softly, _“What’s wrong, Aki?”_  
  
Reita gritted his teeth, knees trembling as Takanori slowly dragged his tongue against the fabric of his pants, and hissed lowly, “When you don’t look at me.”  
  
A huff of amusement came from below his belt and Takanori gave a last, lewd lick before pressing a kiss to his aching erection, lips parting and breath sinfully hot. Another kiss to his hipbone. Another to Reita’s quivering stomach. Another to his chest. His heart. And his amber eyes flickered up to lock with Reita’s own helpless stare, hands tugging at his hips to roll into his, claws sinking into the wicked friction, and smirked wanly, “I’m looking right at you.”  
  
Drowning in shallow breaths, crooked hands catching his lips and legs vilely splayed against the cracked molding of these walls, Reita cradled Takanori’s jaw in his callused hands – he swept the stray brunet strands sticking to his plush, sneering lips, and whispered into his jugular, “Are you really?”  
  
A violent, twisting tug at his short locks brought him before Takanori’s sharp eyes, embers casting shadows against their fading silhouettes – the nails bit into his scalp, seared across every pore and goosebump and his knee rubbed at him so _perfectly_ and _fuck just a little more and just look at me and then I can, I –_    “What the fuck do you want from me, Suzuki? I’m right _here_.”  
  
Reita struggled to move away, to rip himself from the hard glare of Takanori’s normally tender gaze because _this isn’t right, no, no --_   But the heat was pooling, stroking, lapping at their skin and Takanori was already shifting his hips so his bones would scrape every inch of him – would make him _shudder_ and _mewl_ into his slick mouth as he clashed their lips together again, _again_. It was like choking on acid, on a wondrous burn that singed his heart and pleaded with him to grasp at either side of Takanori’s zipper and shred the fabric apart.  
  
The metal scattered across the floor, rusted shards sinking into their feet as Reita pulled them towards the awaiting sheets – still rumpled and strewn about from Insomnia’s restless hands. And Takanori’s mouth was hell – all brimstone and ashes and each press to his collarbone, neck, _everywhere_ was laced in black creeds. The headboard slammed against the wall as Takanori pushed his shoulders up against the wood, straddling Reita’s waist and trailing a hand down to fist his throbbing cock, slender fingers curling softly against the flesh – thumb slowly grazing the weeping head and Reita couldn’t stop the whimper, the snapping of his hips, the hand that reached out to twine their fingers together.  
  
But Takanori flinched, roughly pulled his hand away and dug his nail across the underside of his cock and Reita was left to silently gasp into the arch of his spine, hand still blindly reaching for something, _anything, Taka – where – where – are you –_  
  
And Takanori was shaking so hard that he almost fell apart.  
  
And even though Reita’s own hands were trembling, even though that familiar amber was buried so deep, Reita softly touched Takanori’s neck as he sat up and slowly leaned them over, lowering Takanori’s quaking form into the mattress. The drag of his erection against the covers was rough, like pinpricks, like Takanori’s talons slicing through him, but –  
  
“It’s alright,” he whispered, and he was there, he was right there, pressed against Takanori’s shivering chest – _real_ – and solid as the walls that have kissed their backs and slammed their hearts. He was skin and muscle and _movement_ – and pain-pain- _fuck_ – that made Takanori flutter his eyes shut and _whine_.  
  
“It’s alright, Taka, just look at me – ”  
  
But he can’t, _he can’t-I’m-not-him-I_  
  
 _can’t_  
  
And the agony lanced through him, flashed into Reita’s eyes like desert thunderheads, when Takanori slipped away, _away_ and suddenly Reita was _nothing_ – nothing and just a mere wisp of prisms, anchored only by Takanori’s twisted hands on his hips –  
  
“I’m real,” he snarled against Reita’s lips, and he sounded ragged, sounded wrecked, “I’m fucking _real_ – ”  
  
And Reita opened his mouth to say _yes-yes-as-long-as-you-stay-stay-please_ , but he was falling and a rush gushed through him, _throbbed_ through him, and there was red bursting behind his eyes – something sharp and sweet and horrible that made Reita lift and arch and twist like the cinders inside Takanori’s bones. And fuck – _fuck_ – he can almost taste the black skinny wings ripping from the younger’s spine, but the younger’s shoulder blades were naked and were only shifting knives under his palms. But those hands on his hips were sharpening into claws, cutting into him and drawing blood –  
  
red carnations because _sorry-sorry –_  
  
and someone was screaming – raw and ruined – as he bought their foreheads together while sweet death brushed them both, and Reita threaded his fingers through Takanori’s damp locks as his breath shook because he needed to know, needed to, _please_ –  
  
 _“What’s his name?”_  
  
And Takanori’s chapped lips almost parted,  
  
almost opened wide –  
  
almost swallowed him whole –  
  
Almost.

**Author's Note:**

> (Originally posted to LJ: July 20th, 2012)
> 
> Uruha: A shifter who is addicted to making "almost" become "something" by becoming everyone he's not (needs to touch whoever he wants to shift into in order to do so)  
> Aoi: An empath who is addicted to the emotions of others (can "taste" the color of emotions)


End file.
